CONSPIRATORS.
Mr. Spenser Churchill had been having the very good time which a man
might be expected to have who has had a magnificent palace with a host
of obsequious servants placed at his disposal, and who is monarch of
all he surveys--of another person’s property.
He enjoyed himself most amazingly. He went on pleasant little
excursions to the neighboring towns; he ordered the richest and most
luxurious dinners; he accepted the best of the numerous invitations
which Lady Despard’s neighbors freely accorded him, as a friend of
her ladyship left in charge of the Villa Rimini, and wherever he went
he was voted a most charming and agreeable companion. Indeed, since
Percy Levant’s departure no one had so completely won the hearts of the
Florentine ladies as Mr. Spenser Churchill.
And do not for a moment suppose that the good man gave himself up
to carnal enjoyment without giving thought to his less fortunate
fellowmen. No! The eminent and tender-hearted philanthropist remembered
his poor brethren, and gave such touching accounts of the various
charitable societies with which he was connected--“The Sweeps’
Orphanage,” “The Indigent Knife Grinders’ Society,” “The Society for
the Distribution of Knives and Forks to the South Sea Islanders,”
and so on, that he succeeded in collecting a very tidy sum for these
eminently deserving and practical charities; and everybody agreed that
if ever there was a man too good for this sinful and selfish world, Mr.
Spenser Churchill was indeed that individual!
And so the days passed pleasantly--and profitably--and on the morning
of the sixteenth Mr. Spenser Churchill was sitting over the second
bottle of Lady Despard’s choicest claret, with a cigarette between his
lips, and his benevolent eyes half-closed, with that expression of
bland peace and serenity which only the truly good can experience, when
a servant brought him a letter.
He eyed it with sleepy indifference until he saw the writing, and the
man had left the room; then he tore the letter open eagerly.
“Dear Churchill,” it ran, “the marriage takes place to-morrow morning.
Come, without fail, to the Villa Vittoria here, at four o’clock
to-morrow afternoon.--P. L.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill’s face grew radiant.
“I knew he’d do it! I knew it! What an eye for character I have! I
should have made a good general! I know how to pick my men. I was
confident Percy would do what I wanted! To-morrow! Oh, yes, I’ll be
there. Spenser, my dear friend, you have won the trick; you have----”
He stopped, and a shade crossed his benevolent face. “I wish I’d made
it twenty thousand, instead of ten,” he muttered, wistfully; “I might
just as well have done so--he would not have said anything, and she
wouldn’t have missed it. Why, her mother’s portion, of settlement
money, will bring her five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that
will which the marquis is not capable of altering makes her the
mistress of all his money. Yes, I might just as well have had twenty!
However”--and the smile beamed out again--“dear Percy shall make it
up to me. He wouldn’t like his wife to know of our little contract, I
should think, and I might feel it my duty to tell her, unless--unless
he made it worth my while to hold my tongue. Yes, Churchill, my dear
friend, you have warmed your nest pretty well; and now”--filling his
glass--“now for the enjoyment. No more of these beastly charitable
societies; no longer any need for playing the saint. Let me see--I’ll
live in Paris, I think, most of my time. A man can enjoy himself in
Paris without a parcel of fools interfering or holding him up to
censure! In Paris or--yes, Constantinople. That’s not bad! Oh, what a
time I will have! And Cecil, dear Cecil, who used to sneer at me and
treat me as if I were an impostor; I think, yes, I think, dear Cecil,
I shall have the laugh on you this time, you and your beautiful bride!
For I’m afraid I shall feel it my duty to tell you how completely you
have been fooled. Yes, I think I must do that, really! To-morrow!
To-morrow the new life begins. Hem! well, the old one hasn’t been so
bad! The charitable business has paid, it certainly has paid; but no
more of it; I’m sick of it and the whole cant of it. I’ll enjoy myself
in a proper fashion, enjoy myself in my honestly earned wealth. Let me
see! Ten thousand pounds, with what I have--ahem!--saved, together with
say a thousand or two a year out of dear Percy--how grateful he will
be, of course--will make a nice little income. Spenser, my dear boy,
you are a genius, and you ought to have been a general. Here’s your
health and your future happiness!” and, with a chuckle, he filled his
glass till it ran over, and drained it at a draught.
The Italians are not fond of high houses, and the Villa Vittoria, like
most of its fellows in Pescia, covered a long space of ground, its
rooms being arranged on two stories, with very few stairs and fewer
corridors.
The apartments which the marquis occupied for his own personal use
consisted of a sitting-room, and a dressing-room and bedroom adjoining,
the latter divided from the sitting-room by heavy curtains. On the
other side of the center room was a small anteroom which the marquis
had not used; it was intended as a reception-room for tradespeople or
persons who paid visits of business.
Percy Levant on the occasion of his interview with the marquis had
noticed--very few things escaped his quick eyes--the arrangement of
the rooms, and at half-past three on the afternoon of the sixteenth,
the valet, who had received his instructions from Percy, ushered that
gentleman, Lady Despard and Doris--who were closely veiled--into the
anteroom, and softly closed the door.
Lady Despard raised her veil and shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.
“Well, here we are, my dear Percy,” she said, in a low voice; “but I
don’t think any one else in this world but you would have induced me to
have come; and do you mean to say that you still decline to give us any
explanation of these extraordinary proceedings?”
He shook his head as he drew Doris to a chair, into which she sank with
a weary but resigned gesture.
“And you think that you are treating us properly by all this mystery;
and on the dear child’s wedding day; for I suppose you two mean to be
married this evening? Or is this but a preliminary to the breaking-off
of the match; for, of course, I can see something is the matter between
you two?” and she dropped into the chair with a movement of impatience.
“I shall be ready to marry Doris this evening,” said Percy Levant,
holding Doris’ hand. “It rests with her to decide, dear Lady Despard,”
and he crossed the room and bent over her appealingly. “When you
consented to come here with her this afternoon, you did so knowing that
I should have to keep you in ignorance of my motives; do you think I am
not grateful for your confidence in me? Do you think I would inflict
unnecessary pain on dear Doris?”
“N-o--I don’t!” she said, with languid irritability; “I’m quite ready
to admit that you love her to distraction, but it certainly is enough
to drive one out of one’s senses, these mysterious proceedings of
yours; and Doris tells me nothing lately,” she added.
Doris raised her lovely eyes pleadingly, but remained silent.
“Don’t blame her,” said Percy Levant, gravely. “She, too, is in
ignorance of this, which I am about to do, and my motives! She trusts
me; will not you, Lady Despard?”
“Well, I suppose I must,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “But why
have we come here? My acquaintance with the marquis is too slight to
excuse this intrusion.”
“If it is an intrusion, that which will result from it will excuse it,”
he said. “The fact is,” and he smiled rather sadly, “I have arranged a
little comedy for your ladyship’s amusement! Comedy and tragedy, alas,
are very thinly divided; there is but a step between them. All I ask of
you is that you will remain quiet and silent, whatever you may hear;
and I intend you to hear all. Doris I can rely on,” and he laid his
hand upon her arm with a reverent, gentle touch.
“Oh, I’m not hysterical or nervous,” said Lady Despard. “I shan’t
shriek, however sensational your conjuring trick--or whatever it
is--may be. Come and sit beside me, dear, will you! and, Percy,
remember, if the marquis should hear of our visit here, and want to
know why on earth we came, I shall refer him to you.”
“I abide by that,” he said, gravely. “And now I am going to leave
you----” he added, as they heard the valet speaking to some one in the
hall. “Doris,” and he bent over her, “you will be patient and brave?”
She looked at him trustingly.
“I will be silent, at least. I can promise that,” she said, in a low
voice.
“I am content with that,” he said. “And--and if you should hear that
which might shake your faith in me----” he asked, his face pale and his
lips quivering.
“Nothing can do that,” she responded.
“We shall see,” he said, almost inaudibly, and left them, closing the
door behind him.
Lady Despard took Doris’ hand and caressed it.
“For all my bravado, I feel rather nervous, dear,” she said, with a
forced laugh. “His manner has been so strange of late, and you--you
have had something on your mind, Doris. Oh, of course I have seen that,
though I would rather have died than asked you to tell me!”
“And I think I would rather have died than tell you!” said Doris, with
something like a sob.
“Has there been a quarrel between you? Do you want the match broken
off? For heaven’s sake, speak while there’s time if you want it broken
off!”
Doris shook her head sadly.
“No; I shall marry him this evening, if he wishes it!” she murmured.
“If he wishes it! Why, of course--ah!” she broke off, her hand closing
nervously upon Doris’ burning fingers; “that is Spenser Churchill’s
voice!”
It was Mr. Spenser Churchill’s voice, and as he was ushered into the
center room he held out both hands to Percy Levant and smiled his
sweetest smile.
“My dear Percy, may I congratulate you? May I?”
“You may,” said Percy Levant, giving him a hand.
Spenser Churchill drew a long breath and laughed, an oily laugh of vast
contentment.
“Happy bridegroom! Lucky fellow!” he murmured. “This is the marriage
day, eh?”
“This is the happy day, yes,” said Percy Levant. “Sit down, won’t you?
I’m afraid you are tired. Let me offer you some wine?” He went to the
sideboard. “I’m sorry there’s nothing but brandy here. I’ll ring for
some----”
“Pray don’t trouble, my dear Percy,” said Spenser Churchill, blandly;
“a little brandy is an excellent thing, if taken in moderation.”
Percy Levant mixed a stiff glass, and placed it before him.
“You can understand why I sent for you,” he said, seating himself
opposite to Spenser Churchill, whose back was turned to the curtains
which divided this room from the marquis’ dressing-room. “My part of
the contract being fulfilled, I want to know what my position really
is, and whether this nonsense of yours has any particle of truth in it?”
Spenser Churchill stared indignantly.
“Young man!” he exclaimed, solemnly; “this is the first time I have
ever been accused--to my face--of falsehood! This nonsense! If you
allude to the agreement--the perfectly legal agreement, which you
signed, and which I hold--you will discover that it is anything but
nonsense.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, of course,” said Percy Levant; “don’t be
angry! Well, then, seeing that I am to give you ten thousand pounds
as a fee for your assistance in procuring me a wife, I should like to
know exactly how I am to manage it--I should like to know all about my
wife’s property.”
“Your wife! How well it sounds!” chuckled Spenser Churchill; then his
face grew suddenly suspicious. “By the way, my dear Percy, have you the
marriage certificate? I am not of a suspicious nature. Heaven forbid!
I am, indeed, too trustful and confiding; but I should like to see the
certificate, my dear boy.”
“Certainly,” assented Percy Levant, cheerfully; “I’ll go and ask my
wife for it. Indeed, she may as well be present----”
“No, no,” interrupted Spenser Churchill, putting out his hand. “Never
mind; don’t trouble. The fact is--ahem!--there are some things which
Mrs. Levant--Mrs. Levant!--had better not hear. And to tell you the
truth, my dear fellow, your wife is a young lady I’m not over-anxious
to meet. There’s something about her which makes me uncomfortable.
I’ll--I’ll take a little more brandy, my dear Percy--a capital and
useful spirit, if used in moderation. I have been recommended to take
it by my medical man.”
Percy Levant rose to get the decanter. As he did so, the curtain parted
and Lord Cecil Neville stood in the opening.
Percy Levant made a circuit so as to approach him.
“Remember our understanding, my lord, and wait!” he said, in a whisper.
Lord Cecil seemed to hesitate, his eyes fixed on Spenser Churchill
suspiciously; then he dropped the curtain, which again concealed him.
“There you are! And now to business, Churchill.”
“Yes, to business,” said Spenser Churchill unctuously. “I dare say,
my dear Percy, you think I have earned that ten thousand pounds very
easily--by the way, it ought to have been twenty, it ought, indeed!”
and he shook his head solemnly.
“I’d as soon pay you twenty as ten,” said Percy Levant, carelessly.
“You would? Give me your hand, my dear boy!” exclaimed Spenser
Churchill, with blind enthusiasm. “You are just what I always thought
you--a noble youth, a truly noble and unselfish young man! You would
just as soon give me twenty!”
“Yes, or thirty! I’m as unselfish as you are,” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill’s emotion was so great at this fresh proof of his
dear young friend’s unselfish generosity that he was constrained to
turn his head aside and wipe his eyes.
“You are an honorable, a noble young man, my dear boy!” he murmured.
“And now I will lay the whole story before you. But, as I said, don’t
think I have not earned the money! My dear Percy, are you aware that
your wife was once engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew,
the heir to the title? Eh?” and he chuckled.
“Really!”
“Yes, yes! Oh, it’s true, and I assure you that they would have made
a marriage of it but for me. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Bless my
soul, if I am not a match for a simple and confiding couple like those,
why----” He raised his hand. “But it was a troublesome affair, my
dear Percy, and cost me a deal of thought. And ra--ther risky, too!”
he added, thoughtfully. “Forged letters--ahem!--that is fictitious
correspondence, though rendered inevitable by the circumstances of the
case, is dangerous.”
“I see,” said Percy Levant, distinctly. “You forged letters from Lord
Cecil Neville to Miss Marlowe----”
“Yes. But, quietly, my dear Percy. Bless my soul, you and I don’t
want to publish our little mutual confidences on the housetops;
and--er--this room is rather, I say, rather, public, isn’t it? What’s
behind those curtains? Good gracious!” and he half rose.
“My dear fellow, all the servants speak Italian,” said Percy Levant,
leaning back in his chair with a careless and indifferent air. “While
you speak English you are quite safe!”
Spencer Churchill fell back.
“Oh, all right!” he said. “I rely on your discretion. Well, it didn’t
suit me that Cecil should marry Miss Marlowe for several reasons. One
being that I could not drive a bargain with him as I could----” he
stopped.
“As you could with a penniless adventurer like me,” finished Percy
Levant. “I understand. And so you succeeded in separating them
and--selling her to me. That’s quite clear. I’ve no doubt you managed
it very cleverly; I should think forgery and that kind of thing would
come easy to you, my dear Churchill.”
“Sir! Mr. Levant!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, pugnaciously, and half
rising from his chair; then, as he met the steady gaze of the dark
eyes, he subsided again, and waved his hand pityingly.
“My dear Percy, you wrong me. What I did, I did as much in the interest
of my dear friend, the Marquis of Stoyle, and the young man himself. It
was the marquis who assisted me, I assure you. Packed dear Cecil off to
Ireland, and kept him there--kept him there--till I’d got his ladylove
away.”
The curtain stirred behind the self-satisfied, triumphant plotter, but
Percy Levant, unseen by his companion, held up his hand warningly.
“Really! And the marquis is gratified, no doubt. But, after all, this
is not my business. I want to know----”
Spenser Churchill leaned forward and dropped his voice, but not to so
low a pitch but that the listeners on either side of the room could
hear distinctly.
“You want to know whom it is you have married. I’ll tell you. Wait, you
don’t know the Marquis of Stoyle?”
“I’ve seen him,” said Percy. “Speak louder; what are you afraid of,
man? We are not two conspirators on the stage!”
“Quite right, my dear Percy. Conspirators! Certainly not! We are two
men bound by a common impulse to--to--relieve--benefit our fellow
creatures, and--ourselves!”
“Exactly,” said Percy Levant. “But go on. Remember that you have just
congratulated me on my marriage, and that I am anxious to join my
bride.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, are you aware, my dear Percy, that my friend the
marquis was once married?”
“I know nothing about the Marquis of Stoyle.”
“That he was married----” he stopped and laughed with unctuous
enjoyment. “When I think of it, my dear boy, I’m always tickled by
the desire to laugh. You must know that the young lady had three
lovers--the marquis, a certain Jeffrey Flint, and--myself!” and he laid
his hand upon his heart and bowed.
As he did so, the curtains opened and three figures stood in the
opening. They were those of Cecil, Lady Grace--and the trembling,
emaciated form of the marquis himself. White, deathly white, the old
man stood, clinging to Cecil’s arm, his piercing eyes fixed on the
smooth, long-haired head of Spenser Churchill, with an expression that
baffles all description.
Percy Levant rose, and, under the pretense of filling Spenser
Churchill’s glass, made a warning gesture to them. Lady Grace seemed
about to speak, but the marquis turned upon her with an awful ferocity,
which seemed to deprive her of the power to speak or move.
Percy Levant sank back in his seat.
“Well?” he said.
Spenser Churchill sipped his brandy and water.
“Well, the case stood thus: The girl was engaged to the fellow Jeffrey.
Consequently there was no chance for me. So, my dear Percy, I decided,
as most men of common sense would have decided, to--ahem!--assist
the marquis. I did so, and, bewildered and fascinated by the offer
of a marchioness’ coronet, Lucy accepted and married the marquis.
The result was--er--rather disastrous. With all respect to my dear
friend, the marquis, I must say, my dear Percy, that if ever there was
a fiend incarnate he was one! I don’t wish to be hard upon a fellow
mortal--Heaven forbid!--but if there is anything worse, more cruel and
selfish and altogether unscrupulous than a fiend, then that being may
yield the palm to the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle!”
The marquis, shaking in every limb with fury, clutched Cecil’s arm,
who, with some difficulty restrained him from rushing upon the
oily-voiced speaker.
“Well, the natural result followed. The marchioness fled. Where, and
to whom? Why, to her former lover, Jeffrey Flint. No, my dear Percy,
her conduct was blameless. She died within a few hours after reaching
him. She died, but she left a child, a girl, behind. That girl Jeffrey
Flint adopted and called--can you guess her name?”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Percy Levant, hoarsely, and with white lips--for
this was a revelation to him.
Spenser Churchill lolled back in his chair with an unctuous smile of
enjoyment.
“Right! Quite right, my dear Percy! Doris Marlowe! That is--ah,
ah!--Mrs. Percy Levant!”
The marquis staggered, and clutched at Lord Cecil, and Lady Grace was
rushing forward, but Cecil raised his hand, and, holding her face in
her hands, she sank back.
“So Doris Marlowe is the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle?” said Percy
Levant.
“Just so,” assented Spenser Churchill. “And now, my dear Percy, that
cat is out of the bag; the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle--in other
words, Lady Mary Neville! And the money! Well, I think you won’t regret
your liberal offer when I tell you that her mother’s portion amounts to
five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that her father has made a will
which will leave all he can leave to her.”
“Which he can unmake!” said Percy Levant.
“I think not,” murmured Spenser Churchill, blandly. “There have been
later wills, I think, but--ahem!--I have taken charge of them----”
“You are a clever fellow, Churchill.”
“Y--es, I think I am! I honestly, and modestly, think I am! I ought to
have been a great statesman, or a general, my dear Percy.”
“You ought, indeed!” said Percy Levant. “But--pardon me!--although I
believe every word you say most implicitly, I am afraid the world,
including the marquis, will want some proofs. It is all very well to
say that Miss Marlowe--that is, my wife,” he put in, hurriedly--“is
Lord Stoyle’s daughter; but proof, proof, my dear fellow!”
“You’re no fool, either, Percy,” said Spenser Churchill. “Of course,
we want proofs, and here they are!” and he took some papers from his
pocket. “Here is the certificate of marriage of Lucy--Miss Marlowe’s
mother--to the marquis; the certificate of Miss Marlowe’s otherwise
Lady Mary Neville’s, birth, a full and exhaustive statement of Lady
Stoyle on her deathbed, duly attested; and a statement of Jeffrey
Flint. Pretty complete, I think.”
“Complete, indeed! And how did you get them, Churchill? Upon my word,
you are a cleverer man even than I thought you.”
“How did I get them?” he repeated, lowering his voice; “I got them from
Jeffrey Flint.”
“He gave them to you?”
“Not exactly! My dear Percy, I took them. What use are papers to a
dead man?” He stopped and turned pale, as the scene of Jeffrey’s death
rose before him. “But don’t let us talk of it; it--it was a most
unpleasant affair, I assure you, my dear Percy. But you will, with your
quick intelligence, soon understand how, once having those papers in
my possession, I saw my way to making, with your assistance and Lady
Grace’s, a _grande coup_!”
“Lady Grace’s, eh?” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“My dear Percy, never despise women. They may be fools--I fear they
generally are--but they are, oh, they are so useful! Without Lady Grace
I could have done little or nothing; but she was really invaluable.
Cecil--dear Cecil--was always suspicious of me; but, of course, he
trusted Lady Grace, and she and I between us caught him. ‘Caught him’
is the only expression applicable! To this day he considers himself
under an obligation to her which only marriage can repay.” He laughed.
“Poor Cecil; I can’t help pitying him; for between you and me, my dear
Percy, I’d rather marry a tigress than beautiful Lady Grace! But don’t
let us talk of him or her. Let us talk of ourselves. The whole thing
has gone splendidly, though I say it. Providence, my dear Percy,” and
he turned up his eyes, “has been on our side. The dear marquis--how
surprised he would be if he knew this true story I have revealed to
you!--is lying in a senseless and utterly incapable condition in
London; Cecil and Lady Grace are going to be, if they are not already,
married; and you--you, my dear Percy, are the happy husband of Lady
Mary, the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle! Think of it! Realize it,
and oh, my dear Percy, make it twenty instead of the ten thousand you
agreed upon! Here are the papers. They are at your service; indeed, I
consider that they belong to you----”
He pushed the papers across the table, smiling with oily triumph and
satisfaction, and Percy Levant leaned forward to take them, when a
thin, wasted hand clutched them clawlike and a harsh, strained voice
said:
“No! They are mine!”
Percy Levant sank back into his chair, and wiped the perspiration from
his brow; but Spenser Churchill sprang from his seat, and grabbed at
the papers mechanically. Then, as he encountered the piercing eyes
fixed upon him, he, too, sank back, and, in a terrified voice, gasped:
“The marquis!”